


Just Waiting Till The Shine Wears Off

by DAZzle_10



Series: You belong with me [3]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 23:21:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18974485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: Owen and Dylan have been out for half a year, but that doesn't mean everyone's willing to accept them.Takes place during/post Sarries' semi against Gloucester, because Owen got a lot of grief for his kicking during that game, and it made me think of how it could have gone in this situation.





	Just Waiting Till The Shine Wears Off

**Author's Note:**

> So, Sarries are through to the final, Brad might not be able to play, and I can officially say that I have been lost in London. I also have six new autographs, which is very exciting!
> 
> Anyway, I'm back, and this one comes off the back of yesterday's match, because, as I've already said in the summary, Owen was given grief about his kicking from the Gloucester fans (so we took to cheering him a bit whenever he was close), and as I had a long journey home, I had plenty of time to consider what that might have been like if he was openly gay. The first incident actually did happen, although I changed the actual insult to fit this piece, obviously.

The first time Owen hears it, he’s talking to the team. They’re behind the posts, Twelvetrees taking a conversion, and they’re so close right now; they can’t afford to let a lead like this slip. It might be big, but that’s just as dangerous, because now they have to stop themselves from getting comfortable, have to keep pushing and extending and building up all the way to the final whistle, all the way to Twickenham. Everyone huddles together, arms around each other’s shoulders as the sun beats down on them, and as Twelvetrees knocks the ball over, Owen lets the talk carry on, just stretching it out a little longer. They can more than afford to waste some time.

And then comes the shout.

“ _Shut up, Farrell, you cocksucker!_ ”

For a beat, Owen falters. It’s not the first time he’s heard something like that, not the first time that an angry fan has used such terminology, but normally, the rest of the team isn’t there, and he doesn’t have to see their startled expressions, the restless shift as they all twist to glance subtly towards the source of the insult. Indignation twists Maro’s lips, Nick stiffening just a little – and even Billy’s forehead creases, uncertainty and guilt giving way after a beat to a frown in the direction of the noise.

Forcefully, Owen directs their attention back to him, making a point of continuing exactly what he was saying and wrapping up only when he wants to, satisfied that the team are suitably fired up and will not let their defensive effort slip again.

“Right, lads,” he straightens up just a little. “Let’s fucking smash ‘em.”

As they break apart and turn towards the rest of the pitch, Owen glances at the clock, takes note of the time that’s passed before he turns his gaze to where the Ref is tapping pointedly at his wrist. Lifting his chin, he tilts his head questioningly and doesn’t pick up his pace, letting the Ref jog lightly over to him.

“Let’s be keeping the game moving nice and quickly, please,” Pearce tells him, and Owen is internally pleased that the Ref slows to walk alongside him.

“Yeah, sure,” Owen nods. “Just a quick team talk, is all.”

When he glances around to check that his teammates are all in position, Gloucester shifting restlessly across the pitch,  he’s relieved to see that none of them show any signs of distraction, or even that they remember what was shouted just a minute – or maybe two, given how well they’ve stretched it out – ago. With any luck, it won’t come up for the rest of the match, and it should slip their minds completely afterwards as long as they aren’t thinking too much about it during, then by tomorrow, they’ll all have forgotten completely.

Unfortunately, that isn’t the end of it.

Owen misses yet another kick, frustration bubbling inside him as the jeers rise ever higher; he wasn’t kicking brilliantly in warm-up, and it’s just gone down-hill since. Something about the strike just doesn’t feel right, isn’t quite connecting with the sweet spot, and he’ll have to get some work in with Dan on Monday – not that he thinks Dan would give him a choice in the matter, anyway.

It’s irritating, but there are still other things he can do, other elements of his game which are going well, and luckily, they’ve got enough of a cushion that it shouldn’t be the be-all and end-all –

“ _So bent he can’t kick straight!_ ”

The call is accompanied by a mixture of cheering and retaliating shouts, and Owen’s jaw clenches of its own accord, even as several Saracens fans yell their encouragement to him over the Gloucester supporters’ increasing rowdiness. They’re just restless, he tells himself as he falls back into formation with the team. They’re just irritated because Gloucester are losing so badly, because Sarries are beating them down again and again – and not without their own fair share of errors.

It doesn’t really help much to know; he can’t quite muster a sense of satisfaction to overcome the faint touch of humiliation and growing insecurity, not with him and the rest of the team making so many unforced errors, being so sloppy in their own way.

The game continues, and he puts it out of his mind again, gets on with what he’s meant to be doing. They’re nearly there – so very close, now, and the final is well within touching distance. They can do this. They can definitely do this. All they have to do is get their fucking heads down and bring it home.

And they do. Even as the Ref blows his whistle, Owen is reaching out to his nearest teammate, a grin spreading across his face as Allianz Park rises around them and Sweet Caroline rings in his ears. They’ve got the final, and only 80 minutes stands between them and their prize: 80 minutes comprised of hours of work and team-bonding in the week to come as well as in the months and years before this moment.

Danny appears before him, and he quells his beam into something softer, more sympathetic, as he pulls his rival in to clap the older man on the back.

“Hard luck, mate,” he murmurs, gets a congratulations in return, and is just pulling back to move on when his own surname meets his ears yet again; already, he knows what’s about to happen, despair and mortification mixing with the hurt that prickles his skin as he closes his eyes.

“ _Farrell, did Hartley bum you too hard to kick?_ ”

Owen’s cheeks burn brighter than ever with the words, his grip tightening inadvertently to crush Danny’s fingers where their hands are still clasped between them, and when he opens his eyes, his opponent is staring at him in shocked sympathy, the players around him shifting awkwardly as frowns fall over Gloucester and Saracens faces alike. Forcing his own expression into blank steel, he lets go of Danny’s hand and, after a second, twitches his lips in the barest hint of a smile, moving on to embrace Stretts without a word.

It’s not always like that. They don’t always – it’s not always that way around, and he hates the idea that they’ve assumed it is, that they might look at his relationship and think that he’s… what? The less masculine one? The ‘woman’? It’s an old insecurity, and a stupid one, because they’d probably say exactly the same to Dylan – if not about kicking, then something else – and it’s probably just because they _know_ that saying that is more likely to get to him, but that doesn’t stop the doubt, the humiliation, the feeling that everyone is looking at him and assuming that he takes it up the arse every night. He doesn’t, alright? He doesn’t, and there wouldn’t be anything wrong if he did, anyway, it’s just –

He holds onto David a second too long, and when he goes to pull away, the arm around him holds him firm.

“Don’t listen to them, Faz,” Stretts tells him firmly, concern and sincerity shining through his warm gaze. “Don’t listen to a _fucking word_ they say, you hear me?”

Swallowing, Owen tries to clear his throat enough to speak.

“It’s not always like that between –” he manages, because he needs that to be clear if nothing else, and Stretts shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” his older teammate assures, cutting off Owen’s words even as they die miserably on his tongue. “No matter what, it’s none of their business – and it’s not shameful, whatever you do. Just don’t listen to any of it.”

With a final pat on the back, Stretts steps away to greet Danny, and Owen moves numbly on, trying to ignore the pity in Ed Slater’s gaze. It should be the other way around; Saracens have just beaten Gloucester in the semi-finals, for fuck’s sake. Whoever said that was just jealous, just upset, and yeah, he didn’t have the best day for kicking, so he can focus on that instead. That, and they got through to the final. They’re fucking _through_.

 

Dylan calls that evening, when Owen’s home and alone, scrolling blankly through Instagram – and probably, Owen should have been the one to call instead, since Saints lost, but Dylan’s the one out of the two of them who’s actually occupied. There hasn’t been much of a celebration among Sarries, because everyone wants to get straight on with preparations for the final. They’ve had their changing room party of sorts, of course, but it’s been home to rest and recuperate quickly, to be back in to assess everything on Monday. For Dylan, though, it’s officially the end of Saints’ season, and although Dylan’s still working as hard as he can to get back to full fitness, that’s it as far as the rest of the club is concerned.

“Hey, Dyl,” he greets, trying and failing to achieve some semblance of happiness in his tone; the small celebrations cheered him up somewhat, and it was easy to ride the high of the win when he managed to escape the stifling atmosphere on the pitch, but now the adrenaline and endorphins have faded, he’s been left to wallow in his own mistakes and the abuse hurled at him today. “Sorry Saints didn’t get through.”

“Ah, don’t worry,” Dylan chuckles, and it’s a testament to how drunk he must already be that he doesn’t pick up that Owen’s mood isn’t low purely because of pity over the game. “I know you’re relieved not to be facing the boys.”

Weakly, Owen manages a laugh.

“Well done on getting through, though!” Dylan continues enthusiastically, and _yep, he really is drunk_ – probably hiding in a toilet in a nightclub to avoid a fine for calling his partner, assuming that the same rules apply to Owen as to the rest of the team’s wives and girlfriends. “Brilliant win! Absolutely smashed them!”

“Did you even see the game?” Owen asks tiredly, and apparently that’s obvious enough to get through to Dylan.

“No,” his boyfriend admits. “I was busy with Saints. Not your best performance?”

“Not by a long shot,” Owen sighs, running his finger absent-mindedly over the leather of the couch. “I missed most of my kicks, we were far from our best, and Brad’s probably out for next week.”

_And I got yelled at for being gay, for being your boyfriend._

Owen can tell Dylan about that some other time, when Dylan isn’t meant to be out celebrating the end of the season with his team, when he doesn’t need to keep this conversation short in case anyone notices that he’s gone.

“Ah,” Dylan is silent for a moment. “Do you want me to call back tomorrow so you can talk about it more, or do you need to vent now?”

“I’m fine for now,” Owen assures him, entirely unconvincingly; Dylan, no matter how drunk, isn’t about to believe that.

“What’s bothering you most?”

 _Something you’ll be upset about_ , Owen thinks. _Something I’d rather you didn’t hear until tomorrow, at least._

“My kicking,” he mutters, because in terms of the game, it probably is that. “I was _shit_ , Dyl. Absolutely awful. It wasn’t great in warm-up, and then…”

“This from the tee or in play?”

“The tee,” Owen scrubs a hand roughly over his eyes, wishing he wasn’t distracting Dylan from what’s likely been a great night out so far regardless of Saints’ result – never mind with such a miserable talk, when Dylan only called to offer a cheerful congratulations. “I missed… five? And it wasn’t like they were all difficult shots, I just…”

 _Couldn’t kick straight_.

Rubbing at his eyes again, Owen blinks fiercely and tries to quash his rising emotions. He’s really hit a low this evening, despite – or maybe in part because of – the win, but he doesn’t want to drag Dylan down with him.

“Listen, you just enjoy your evening,” he mumbles, even as his voice starts to thicken. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”

Fuck, he just needs to hold on for a moment longer, needs to keep himself together until Dylan is off the phone, before he gives in to the urge to blurt out what else happened – before he breaks down completely. He thought he was fine, when he left Allianz, and he was, because he was still excited from the win, desperately anticipating the upcoming final. If he’d known he was going to feel like this, he’d probably have taken Jamie up on the offer to go out for dinner then sleep in his friend’s spare room tonight.

Drawing his feet up onto the couch and his knees into his chest, he slumps down to curl up on his cushion, head resting on the arm of the furniture. He’ll talk to Dylan about it tomorrow, and then everything will be fine. He’s just being a bit stupid, just letting his insecurities get the better of him.

“I –” Dylan stops. “Listen, I’m not planning on staying out too long – I’m still going to be working to get fit, obviously, so… The boys aren’t expecting me here for much longer, never mind tomorrow. I can get a taxi up to you later tonight.”

For a moment, Owen considers refusing, but he wants Dylan here, wants his boyfriend desperately, and the sooner he gets off the phone, the sooner he can let the tears welling in his eyes fall. He just feels so… _down_ right now, so humiliated and hurt and alone, cold and uncertain in the emptiness of his own home.

“Yeah, alright,” he whispers. “Love you, Dyl.”

“Love you too, Faz,” Dylan replies. “I’ll see you later.”

As soon as the line clicks dead, Owen lifts a shaking hand to wipe at his eyes, sucking in a shuddering, stilted breath that explodes back out of him in a choking sob immediately. Fuck, his kicking was terrible today, and that’s fine, he can work on that, but… There’s nothing he can do about people yelling homophobic abuse at him, about being gay. Normally, he doesn’t care what the fans say, never mind the opposing fans, but today… Today, it hurts so badly, feels so much more personal, targeted. It’s like he’s been singled out for attack, and it could be because of his performance from the tee or his sexuality; he doesn’t know.

He’ll never really know.

So many people heard it as well – first his teammates, and then the Gloucester players, too, and all the fans around the various people who shouted. For all he knows, it will be in the news tomorrow, if any journalists picked it up or someone calls in to tell them – no, scratch that, it will definitely have been reported, and that means it will certainly be in the news, because Sarries will be looking to ban whoever shouted it.

Being gay has _nothing_ to do with his rugby. It doesn’t need to be mixed; it’s just not necessary. He’s a rugby player, and he’s gay, and he wishes that was just a fact of life, that it didn’t need to be called in whenever he makes a mistake on the field.

More tears leak from his burning eyes, his chest heaving with anguish as he wrestles for control of his breathing. Already, a headache is forming, like a chisel driving deeper into his skull with each desperate gasp as vulnerabilities and self-doubts hammer at his exposed brain. He doesn’t talk much about his sexuality to the media – he never brings it up, and they tend to leave the topic alone – and he’s normally grateful for that, but it leaves him with no idea of what everyone thinks of him, of it, and right now, the thought terrifies him. They could hate it, could be questioning his abilities or his relationship with his teammates, and he wouldn’t know.

Whatever they think of him, he’s only heard the worst of it – and maybe that’s because it’s what everyone thinks, as much as the more logical side of him knows it’s probably not.

He needs Dylan here right now, because he was so high earlier, on the victory and the promise of another step towards the defence of their title, and the further up the adrenaline can take you, the lower it can let you fall.

Frustration burns alongside it all: frustration at the attitudes that have persisted for so long and show no signs of ever dying out completely, and at himself for having had years to get used to it without managing to ever stop it hurting. He’s grown man, crying alone on his couch because another team’s fans were _calling him mean names_.

But it isn’t just that, and if there’s one thing Dylan’s taught him, it’s that if he’s upset about something, the least he can do is not shame himself for it. They’re questioning his masculinity, suggesting that his rugby might be affected by his sexuality, insulting him for things beyond his control.

He cries long after the tears have withered away, dry sobs wracking his body until he’s too exhausted even for that, head on the verge of caving in under the pressure of the empty silence around him. For some time after that – he doesn’t know how long – he lies in silence, staring blankly ahead at the darkening wall across from him, until restless slumber overcomes him and he slips into pained sleep.

 

“Owen?”

Dylan’s soft voice, accompanied by a gentle touch to his shoulder, wakes him from a dreamless sleep which has done nothing to help him. His head still aches – maybe even more so than it did earlier – and he feels as tired as he did before, but he lets Dylan help him up into a sitting position and takes the water his boyfriend offers him with a grateful flick of his eyes: all he really feels like attempting right now. Sighing, Dylan settles onto the couch beside him, watching in quiet concern while Owen sips at the water.

“…This isn’t what I’d normally expect if you were only cut up about your performance,” Dylan observes finally, and Owen can only nod blankly. “What’s wrong, love?”

Without a word, Owen curls into Dylan’s side, dropping his head to his boyfriend’s shoulder as he cradles the glass of cool water in both hands. His eyes feel as if they’ve been scratched out, his limbs aching horribly, and when Dylan slips an arm around his shoulders to squeeze gently, he can’t help but sniff a little, lifting a trembling hand to wipe at his eyes again.

“How drunk are you?” he asks quietly, because he’d really prefer Dylan to be sober for this conversation.

“I haven’t drunk since before you called,” Dylan assures him, equally soft. “So… Five hours? Six? I’m fairly clear in the head right now. What happened?”

“I…” Owen swallows, blinking rapidly, and his eyelids scrape viciously over his raw, worn eyeballs. “Well, I said I wasn’t kicking well. Just… some of the Gloucester fans…”

It’s going to sound stupid saying it aloud, but he knows by now that Dylan doesn’t care about that, and certainly won’t be impressed if he uses that as an excuse.

“What did they do?” Dylan presses, concerned, and Owen blows out a slow breath before steeling himself.

“Shouting homophobic shit,” he mutters. “Said I’m too bent to kick straight, you must’ve fucked me too hard, just stupid…”

“Fucking bastards,” Dylan growls, arm tightening around Owen’s shoulders. “It’s been reported, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Owen nods. “Everyone heard it.”

For a moment, quiet falls, then Dylan turns his head to kiss Owen’s hair, sighing with his lips still pressed into the short strands.

“It will get better,” the older man promises. “It will. People are getting more accepting by the day, and the few who aren’t will be banned or learn to shut up. Just promise me that in the meantime, you won’t listen to them?”

Owen closes his eyes briefly, lifting the glance to take a few more sips of water. Yes, what Dylan’s saying is true, and it’s so much better than it used to be, but who knows how long it will take to get to a place where he’s completely accepted – where they’re both completely accepted? How many years, how many setbacks and stumbling blocks? Owen will probably be retired long before it’s considered normal.

“Sure,” he agrees finally, sighing. “I’ll try.”

“And you’ll keep telling me whenever it happens?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Dylan kisses his head once more. “You want to get to bed, now?”

 

**_ Saracens to Ban Culprits of Homophobic Abuse Hurled at Owen Farrell _ **

_Saracens are in the process of investigating three instances of homophobia aimed at star playmaker Owen Farrell during their Gallagher Premiership semi-final 44-19 win over Gloucester Rugby._

_Farrell, 27, first spoke openly about being gay in April, following a **homophobic post from Wallabies star Israel Folau** , but has been known to be in a relationship with fellow England Captain Dylan Hartley since December last year. _

_Reaction to Farrell’s sexuality has been minimal, in part due to his own lack of commentary on it, but during yesterday's match against Gloucester, in which Farrell’s kicking accuracy was unusually low, several Gloucester fans took to shouting abuse at him from the stands. Saracens have confirmed that they intend to identify the fans responsible and administer lifetime bans._

_In a statement released by Gloucester Rugby, the visiting club said they were ‘deeply sorry to hear of the incident’ and were ‘working with Saracens to identify those responsible’. They also extended apologies to Farrell, adding that the club ‘does not condone such attitudes.’_

_Farrell himself has yet to comment, but is believed to have been affected by the incident, with footage from official broadcasters BT Sport capturing his stony expression after the third occasion – mere minutes after his team’s win._

_Farrell is expected to captain England at the World Cup this year, having stepped in for partner and usual captain Hartley for the first time last summer before being named co-captain during the Autumn and, most recently, filling in for Hartley once more during the Six Nations._

It’s Jamie who comes over to see him the next day. Not that Owen finds out for an hour, because Dylan’s apparently been up with a hangover and made sure he slept in, so his boyfriend opened the door and didn’t bother to wake Owen up while the two Hookers chattered over coffee about who knows what. Lineouts or scrums or something.

 In the end, though, Dylan _does_ wake him, coaxing him out of bed with the promise of coffee. Owen isn’t used to sleeping in this late – it’s past nine in the morning, and normally he’d be up at eight – and for some reason, sleeping later always seems to make it harder to get out of bed, so he struggles a bit at first, wandering down to the kitchen with his hair all over the place, shorts and t-shirt thrown haphazardly on, to blink at Jamie and turn wordlessly to Dylan for an explanation.

“I did say he was here,” Dylan tells him, obviously amused. “Sit down; I’ll make you that coffee, yeah?”

Still a little confused, Owen drops down into a seat across from Jamie and turns his questioning frown on his clubmate instead.

“I just came to see how you are,” Jamie offers. “Guess you won’t have seen – the club’s looking for the twats who said those things. They’ll get lifetime bans if they can be identified.”

Slowly, Owen nods.

“I’m fine,” he manages, clearing his throat quickly when his voice rasps. “Thanks, Jinx.”

“No worries, mate,” Jamie grins a little, then. “Didn’t expect Dyls to answer the door.”

“What can I say?” Dylan hands Owen his coffee. “I’m full of surprises.”

Lifting his mug, Owen takes a sip of the coffee – exactly as he likes it, of course – and rolls his eyes as Dylan reaches out to force his hair into a semi-ordered appearance, but doesn’t bat the hands away, even when Jamie snorts.

“He only does this because he doesn’t have enough hair of his own,” he tells his friend, to a huff from Dylan.

“Well, was it ten years off your dad?” Jamie smirks behind his own coffee, and Owen has to grin, bursting into laughter a moment later when he catches sight of Dylan’s expression.

“Exactly how much _do_ you tell Saracens?” Dylan demands, incredulous. “Sometimes I think they know more about us than _I_ do.”

“You know the important stuff,” Owen assures him, blank-faced for several seconds until Dylan groans.

“I come over here, I make you coffee…”

“Yes, and I’m very grateful,” Owen waves a hand in mock-dismissal as Jamie watches on in amusement.

“Boyfriends, Jamie,” Dylan turns to their company, and it occurs to Owen that Jamie probably feels very much like a third wheel right now – though if it bothers him, he does a good job of hiding it. “Don’t get one.”

Jamie snorts quietly, shaking his head, but doesn’t say anything, and comfortable silence settles in place for a moment. Dylan slips into the chair next to Owen, checking his phone briefly, and when he tucks the device away, Owen reaches out to tangle their fingers together, getting a short squeeze and a smile in return.

“Glad you’re alright, mate,” Jamie speaks finally. “But if you ever need to… You know you can come to us about something like this, yeah? We’re a team, mate. We’re all here to support you, just like you’d support us.”

“Yeah,” Owen blows out a quiet breath, then meets Jamie’s eyes and nods. “I know.”


End file.
